A Voyage to New Lincoln
by Juliana Brandagamba
Summary: A crossover between Around the World in Eighty Days and The Mysterious Island, both by Jules Verne. Phileas Fogg was not satisfied by his travels and desires to see more of America; but he, Passepartout and Mme Aouda will get more than their money's worth, at least in terms of adventure.
1. Phileas Fogg

Phileas Fogg found fame, as you might well know, from his voyage that he made by going around the world in eighty days. I know about that voyage better than most, for I was with him – me, Jean Passepartout, the valet and, I rather hope, friend of this accomplished gentleman. Of course, it was Phileas Fogg who reaped the great rewards of this journey, for not only did he gain his wager of £20,000 – a princely sum, you might well say, and I would agree – but he won the hand in marriage of one of the most beautiful women I have ever set eyes on: Madame Aouda (as I call her – to Phileas Fogg she is but Aouda, for she is now his wife, and they love each other dearly).

But what became of me? I remain still in the service of Phileas Fogg, but, of course, he regards me not so much as a servant as a companion and – I dearly hope, _comme j'ai dit _– a friend. Yet still I get given a good deal of work: indeed, straight after our return to England I had a good deal of work to do, to make up for the gas that was burnt unnecessarily in a gaslight I left on.

Phileas Fogg, as you probably know, is an English gentleman, very proper, very phlegmatic – just the opposite to the image of a traveller and adventurer. Yet that is just what he is, and it seems to me that the Fogg who dines at the Reform Club and is so exact and punctual in his day-to-day actions is an entirely different man to the Fogg who decided on a whim (and with the incentive of £20,000) to circumnavigate the globe. But even now I can see a dash of the adventurous Fogg in him: he might manage to keep himself utterly composed, but I have noticed on more than one occasion a spark of something in his eye when I mention our trip, or when Mme Aouda talks to him of India or other Eastern lands – every time he hears of travelling, or of other nations, he seems to breathe in sharply and twitch his usually unmoving eyebrows.

My suspicion that he wanted to travel again was confirmed when one day he summoned me to the lounge in which he and Mme Aouda were seated, and asked me this:

'How did you find America when we were there?'

I could hardly reply that being captured by Indians and nearly killed by them had been a somewhat rattling experience. Phileas Fogg already had his Atlas open and was scrutinising it. From where I was sitting, it appeared that he desired to visit the north-eastern part, for this was the map he studied so intently.

'I like well the civilised parts,' I replied, though it had been only relief that I had felt when we had come to the cities and civilisation of the east.

'I wonder, Passepartout –' and here he stopped, following something on the map with his finger. 'I thought that I might go again – to the eastern states.' My thoughts were confirmed. 'I sense that our brief taste of New York might not have been sufficient – and as for the rest of the country –'

I did not say anything, for I knew that his mind was already made up; and _de toute façon_, who was I to object?

'Very well,' said Phileas Fogg without waiting for an answer. 'Prepare our bags; we leave on Thursday.'

It being then Tuesday, I could not help looking astonished. Mme Aouda smiled slightly, and stood; she nodded to me. 'We seem to have shocked our friend here, my dear,' she said. 'Mr Passepartout, I assure you that Phileas is more organised than he seems. We had planned this trip before now.'

Yet I had not been told of it, and I felt more than a little resentment because of this; nevertheless, I said nothing and went then to my task.


	2. Arrival in New York

And so on Thursday we found ourselves travelling by train to Liverpool, from where we were to catch a steamer for America. I found myself remembering the last time we had crossed the Atlantic – from New York to England on our world tour. That had not gone all too well. I rather hoped that this crossing would be comfortable and lack the chaos of our last journey.

The weather was fair, which was a relief. Our crossing was reasonable; it took just over a week to reach New York. I had had a cabin to myself, next to that of Phileas Fogg and Mme Aouda; I had tried to get time to myself on the way, for I was not needed to serve my master; I saw him at meals and in the evenings, when we enjoyed each other's company, but other than that I tried to consider myself on holiday.

We came in sight of the great continent of America on the ninth day of travelling. I stood on the deck watching the coast come nearer, the breeze lightly ruffling my hair, the conditions rather _merveilleux._ After a short while Phileas Fogg and Mme Aouda joined me, coming hand-in-hand to my side, looking out over the rippling sea; Mme Aouda's eyes were excited, and Phileas Fogg's eyes rather brighter even than usual. He had changed – our journey and his wife had changed him. I wasn't sure if I liked that or not. _Cependant_, I was his servant, and it was not my place to comment.

'We are nearly there,' I said, for want of something else to say.

'Indeed,' said Phileas Fogg.

We were silent for a bit; then Mme Aouda spoke. 'My dear Passepartout, what bothers you?'

Ah, _les femmes_! They always seem to be able to guess your thoughts. 'Nothing, Madame,' I replied. 'I wonder – what are we going to do when we are in America?'

'I have an itinerary planned,' my master informed me, handing me a slip of paper. In his immaculate handwriting he had noted down a list of sights and restaurants he wanted to visit, exact times at which we were going to visit them, and the hotels we would be staying in, with times to the precise minutes, meticulous to the point of absurdness.

I hid a grimace and handed the paper back. I had admired Phileas Fogg's nature when first I had arrived in England, but remaining the same abroad seemed to me bizarre.

'Very well, master,' I said.

'And now I believe it is time for lunch, and then we shall be in New York,' Phileas Fogg declared, half-ignoring me. He offered his arm to Mme Aouda, and led her inside. After a moment spent staring into the middle distance, looking upon the nearing landmass that was America, I followed.

We docked in New York not long after dinner. Phileas Fogg and Mme Aouda were almost the first off the ship, and I was not far behind, lugging with me a carpet-bag – the same carpet-bag, indeed, that had served us so well on our voyage around the world. This time however it was filled not with money but with mainly Mme Aouda's belongings. (Phileas Fogg always travels light – a change of clothes, a deck of cards and his ubiquitous umbrella – carried on his arm as usual – comprised his entire luggage on this trip.)

New York! All the words on Earth could not describe this city, such a contrast from European cities though it was Europeans who built it. Bustling and vibrant, and yet overwhelmingly different, it had interested me somewhat the last time I had come, though we had not spent nearly enough time there, and most of that time was spent at the docks. But here we were, once again in America and staying awhile this time. I was joyful at this fact, though I wished that we could be a little more flexible whilst we were on holiday – for it was a holiday, not a wager, not a mad voyage – a holiday, and I was prepared to do anything to keep it that way.


	3. Harbert Brown

That evening in our hotel we had rather a marvellous dinner – large, in the American style, with a remarkable amount of meat and an array of desserts to choose from. I did not like to ask how much it was costing my master, but I would not complain.

Afterwards Phileas Fogg and Mme Aouda retired to their room; I asked leave to go into the city. I had been told that the evenings were quite the best time to explore New York – when the Sun was setting, when the air was cool and fresh, when the restaurants and theatres were at their busiest.

But I had barely got further than the lobby of the hotel when a young man ran up to me. I did not recognise him; he was perhaps twenty, with a neat crop of dark curly hair, dressed very smartly for a youth, with a wise, intelligent look to him and twinkling eyes. I looked him up and down; it was more than a moment before he spoke.

'I'm sorry to bother you, sir,' he said in a distinct accent that suggested he was local, 'but the man who was with you – is he by any chance Phileas Fogg?'

I raised my eyebrows at this. 'Yes...'

'My heavens! Really? Sorry – I had to know. I thought I recognised him from the newspaper. Gideon – Gideon Spilett – wrote an article about him in the _New Lincoln Herald_ when he was in America, on his tour of the world – was it a tour of the world?'

The enthusiastic tirade nearly bowled me over. For a second I could not reply; then I said, 'Yes. It was.' I tried to stop myself grimacing – our adventure in America had not been pleasant. 'I don't suppose this Gideon Spilett mentioned Fogg's servant Jean Passepartout?'

The lad thought for a moment. 'Yes, I believe there was a passing mention –' Here he paused. 'Wait – you're not...'

'Jean Passepartout – si,' I replied, my chest swelling slightly at my small measure of fame. 'I was with Phileas Fogg on his entire _tour du monde_.'

'Delighted to meet you,' the young man said at once, proffering his hand, which I shook. 'Harbert Brown. I'm nobody important.'

But it had just then occurred to me where I had heard the name Gideon Spilett and the _New Lincoln Herald_ mentioned before. '_Mais si_! Unless I am much mistaken, was it you who escaped the American Civil War and lived for many years on an island?'

'Lincoln Island, yes,' he replied, astonished. 'Did that story reach Europe then?'

'It was mentioned,' I told him. 'Not in detail, but – was it three years ago you returned? I remember reading about it. You were with a famous engineer – I don't recall his name, it was something like Cyril Smith?'

'Cyrus,' Harbert corrected me. 'Cyrus Smith.'

'_Mais oui_. Cyrus.' I paused. 'So you returned to New York afterwards?'

'Oh, no, no!' Harbert laughed a pleasant laugh. 'No, we all live in Iowa now, in what we call Lincoln Island, even though it isn't an island.'

'All of you?'

'Yes, all of us. Me and Mr Smith and Pencroff – he's my adoptive father – and Gideon Spilett and Nab and Ayrton. We couldn't leave each other. Not after Lincoln Island. We're like brothers. And New Lincoln – well, you should see it. It's magnificent.' He hesitated for a moment, and added, 'Not that you'd be that impressed – if you've done the tour of the world!'

'In eighty days,' I reminded him. 'There was little time to see much. I should most likely be pleased to see New Lincoln.'

'Perhaps you will,' the young man replied. 'You would be welcome, if you decided to visit.'

At this I felt something stir within me, for I was greatly interested by the tale of these friends, and quite wanted to see the land they had made their own. I wondered if I might be able to persuade my master to let us go to Iowa...


End file.
